


And You Are Not Me

by kesdax



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:59:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesdax/pseuds/kesdax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She feels her humanity like a knife in her chest. It stings and bleeds and <i>hurts</i> and sometimes she can’t remember how to breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Are Not Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [journaliar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/journaliar/gifts).



Faith was not a new concept to Samantha Groves. She had faith that the sky was blue, that the grass was green. That time in Bishop would always pass incredibly slowly.

She had faith in the doctors that treated her mother and had faith that she would get better as long as she took her pills.

Sam's mother had a different kind of faith. She believed in God and all the judgements He would pass upon them. Sam believed in God because her mother told her to. But she never had _faith._

She had watched her mother collapse, seizing from too many pills mixed with too much alcohol. There had been days when her mother had been so sick, in so much _pain,_ that she had tried to take her own life.  After that, Sam never had much use for God or faith. How could a God who supposedly loved and cared make her mother so sick with no end in sight?

Her mother's faith never wavered and on her better days, she always insisted they attend church on Sundays. Forcing Sam into her best clothes - which were just as frayed and fading as her regular clothes - her mother would walk them into town, rising earlier than usual to get them there on time. They didn't have a car and the only bus that passed their way was the school bus that picked Sam up every morning and dropped her off every afternoon.

Sam hated church. The priest seemed nice enough but she could only take so much of his false cheeriness as he preached. Afterwards, when people were leaving and thanking him for such a beautiful sermon, he always made a point of talking to Sam and her mother.

"And how are you this week, Mrs Groves?"

It was the same question he always asked her and Sam's mother would always reply, no matter how good or bad the week had been, "all the better with God at my side."

Then he would turn to Sam with a smile that was too wide for his face. "And how is Samantha?"

Most weeks Sam would answer politely that she was fine, school was good and her grades were average and she would be rewarded with a small smile from her mother that was just for her.

As she got older, those answers became more clipped and vague, her tone cold and her stare hard. Sometimes, when she wasn't careful, she would say something that would cause Father McKay's cheeks to redden. Later, her mother would punish her and Sam would feel the sting of it right up until the next Sunday and she would start another week bored and pretending to listen. Her mind would wander and her gaze with it. It was the middle of summer and Sam was eleven years old when she saw _her_. She was sitting next to a tall man that Sam assumed must be her father and she was the prettiest thing that Sam had ever seen.

Sam couldn't take her eyes off her and every week thereafter, would spend her time trying to spot the pretty girl in amongst the pews.

One week, she was sitting in the pew across from Sam and her mother. Sam couldn't stop staring. She wasn't sure if her gaze had been felt by the girl or if she had been as bored as Sam by Father McKay's speech. Their eyes locked and the girl smiled shyly at Sam for a moment before she glanced away.

Sam had a funny feeling in her chest, something warm and fuzzy that stayed with her all the way home.

Then her mother had a Bad Week and they didn't go to church the following Sunday. Or the one after that. Sam missed the first week back at school, calling the school secretary, pretending to be her mother and claiming that Sam was too ill to come back to school this week.

The school secretary had said, "Uh-huh" in that same sceptical and knowing way that all adults did when Sam had to lie about her mother. Everyone knew it was a lie but everyone minded their own business. Sam took care of her mother, suppressing tears of anger and frustration and only the thought of the pretty girl's smile kept her going.

And sometimes, out of desperation, Sam would pray to God.

She never got an answer.

*

"Do you believe in God?" Root asks.

Shaw, once she has registered the words, merely shrugs. Root is in a strange mood tonight, quiet and forlorn. This isn't the first strange question she has asked Shaw and Shaw doubts it will be last.

"That’s not answer," Root claims. "Do you believe in God?"

"No," says Shaw, firmly and quickly. Root is silent for several minutes and for a moment Shaw almost allows herself to believe that the conversation and all the ridiculous questions are over.

"Have you ever?"

Clenching her jaw tightly, Shaw turns to glare at Root. "What’s with the game of twenty questions?" she snaps. They are supposed to be watching the warehouse and Shaw would much prefer silence to whatever the hell this is. Waiting for Samaritan's operatives to make an appearance has left her tense and frustrated and she wishes Root would shut up and let her concentrate.

"Is that a yes?" Root asks. There is a slight smirk to her voice that doesn't quite reach her face.

Shaw has taught herself to read those tiny expressions on Root's face and although much of her is still a mystery, she can tell that Root is being serious. This is a sincere question and she is looking for a sincere answer.

"No," says Shaw. "I don't believe in God and I never have."

Religion wasn't something that was a constant in Sameen's life. Her mother had been an atheist in a country where the dominant religion gave very little rights to woman and her father had been a Roman Catholic, but Sameen can't recall him ever stepping foot in a church. Neither had insisted Sameen make a choice. Her mother had taught her about all religions, all their good and bad sides and had left Sameen to decide for herself. Sameen had never cared enough to think about it any further than that.

"Oh," says Root and Shaw can't tell if she sounds relieved or disappointed.

She's just glad her answer has finally shut Root up.

*

The first time Sam Groves ever kissed someone properly she was twelve years old. It was in the biography section of the library. It was dark outside and somehow that darkness had penetrated inside, a gloominess lurking between the shelves.

The library was closing early that day. It was Christmas Eve and everyone just wanted to get home for the holidays.

Everyone except Sam.

She hated everything about Christmas. The stupid decorations and the annoying songs. The way everyone was so cheerful and merry all the time. It was so false. Just like everything else about Bishop.

This year though, Sam didn't need to lurk in the library by herself until she was kicked out and sent home. Hanna was here too, smiling over her shoulder at Sam as she played her stupid games on the computer. Sam watched for a bit before becoming bored and heading off to pursue the shelves of books. Sam had read most of them by now, but there was always new stuff coming in that Sam eagerly consumed. She had no real preference, would read anything she could get her hands on, fiction or non-fiction. She even managed to sneak a look at some of the adult books she wasn't supposed to go near whenever Miss Barb wasn't looking. But those were dumb gross adult things that never really held Sam's interest for long and she would always go back to more suitable material soon enough.

When she had first started spending more time with Hanna, both in the library and in school, Sam would watch everything she did. Hanna spent most of her time on the computer and when she wasn't playing those stupid games that Sam could never see the point of, she was in the small sci-fi section in the back, lonely corner of the library.

Sam didn't like sci-fi much, but Hanna loved it and soon she was recommending books for Sam to read. Sam read them reluctantly at first, but soon Hanna’s enthusiasm was rubbing off on her and she was devouring everything Hanna told her to read.

Sam knew Hanna had better places to be today other than stuck in the library, keeping Sam company. Ever since she had found out about Sam’s home life, Hanna had made a point of hanging out with Sam more often and inviting her round to her house so Sam didn’t have to go home. With anyone else, it would almost have been like pity, an obligation because they felt sorry for her. But not with Hanna. Everything felt different with Hanna.

They mostly came to the library after school, but some evenings they went to Hanna’s house. Sam liked those days, even if Hanna herself didn’t. There was something off about Hanna’s dad, but he was nice enough to Sam on those occasions she was in his house. It made Sam envious at times, not of Hanna herself, but of that house and their TV and two loving parents, neither of whom were sick.

She never shared that with Hanna though. Not after that first time at Hanna’s house when she got angry at Sam for talking about her dad. Sam never understood why, not until a few weeks later when she found Hanna sobbing in the girl’s bathroom at school, her cheek ugly and purple from a nasty bruise. Sam never asked about it and Hanna never told her any of the details.

They never went back to Hanna’s after that.

Despite that though, Hanna was looking forward to Christmas. Sam could tell by the way she excitedly talked about the turkey her mom was cooking and the presents she was hoping to get. There was only once that Sam could recall ever having turkey on Christmas day. It was one of her mother’s rare good days and she had made turkey and all the trimmings. She had even went out and bought crackers. Although she couldn’t remember what they were now, Sam recalled how she had laughed so hard at the dumb jokes until there were tears in her eyes. It was a good day, but like most good days, Sam knew it had to end. This one ended in the ER, her mother drunk with a nasty gash on her hand where she had cut herself. It was Sam’s fault, of course. Everything was always Sam’s fault.

They hadn’t had Christmas dinner since.

That Christmas Eve, Sam hovered behind Hanna, sticking to her close as she listened to her gush about old family traditions. Sam would smile weakly, secretly hoping Hanna would stop talking suddenly, finally look at her properly, and invite Sam around to hers for Christmas dinner.

It didn’t happen though. Especially not after what Sam did.

Days later, she couldn’t recall why they were even in the biography section. All Sam could remember was the ghastly Christmas decorations everywhere and hating every single one of them.

“Oh, cool,” said Hanna excitedly. “Is that mistletoe?”

Sam glanced up. She had never seen mistletoe before, but she knew what it was for.

Hanna was grinning at her as she pulled a book absently from a shelf and flicked through it quickly before putting it back. It was dark in this part of the library, but Hanna’s smile was like a brightness all in itself. It drew Sam towards her, and without really thinking about it, Sam found her lips pressed against Hanna’s, soft and warm.

Something burned deep in Sam’s gut, not unpleasant, but it left her feeling dizzy and nauseous and she gasped when Hanna pushed her roughly away. Sam stumbled backwards into the bookcase. Books landed onto the floor with a thump, but Sam ignored them, watching Hanna’s eyes harden with her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

“What are you doing?” Hanna asked. She wasn’t so much as angry, but confused. Sam couldn’t make her mouth work and her eyes darted to the side, hearing Miss Barb approach to find out what all the commotion was.

When Sam turned back, Hanna was gone.

*

“The Machine’s a god,” says Root. “You believe in her.”

Shaw sighs, but it comes out more as a growl of annoyance.

“The Machine’s a machine,” Shaw says. States it like the fact that it is. She sees no divinity there. Does not worship the all-seeing AI. But Root does.

Root always has.

Root would do anything for the Machine. Sometimes Shaw wonders just how far Root is willing to go in the name of her god. If she would put a bullet inside every single one of them if the Machine asked her to.

It’s not a thought Shaw allows herself often because she knows where it leads. Root may have gotten the jump on her on more occasions than Shaw cares to remember, but Shaw’s not about to let that happen again. She’d sooner put a bullet in Root herself before she let her harm anyone else.

*

Sam returned to school in the new year fully expecting Hanna to hate her. So it came as a surprise when Hanna slipped onto the bench opposite her at lunch the first day back, smiling and chatting as if nothing had happened. Sam felt so awkward the whole time that she couldn’t eat her lunch; her sandwich tasted like cardboard and it was like sandpaper trailing down her throat when she swallowed.

It didn’t same to faze Hanna though, or perhaps she didn’t notice Sam’s discomfort and they went back to their usual routine of eating lunch together and meeting up after school to go to the library. Neither of them mentioned what had happened. Part of Sam was grateful for that. She wanted to forget about the whole thing.

Sometimes though, Sam could still feel the tingle of Hanna’s lips against hers, like a ghost haunting her waking hours. And her heart still sped up, so fast Sam feared it would burst out of her chest, whenever she caught a whiff of Hanna’s shampoo or if their fingers accidently brushed together when they were reaching for the same book.

But she was grateful for those small moments. Hanna was like a lifeline out of the darkness of her home life. Her mother hadn’t had a good day in months. Winter never was a good time of year. The drop in temperature and holiday cheer always seemed to act like the fuse that set everything off. All the old long forgotten arguments would always come back up, her mother’s voice and hands lashing out at her. Sam made herself scarce more often these days, finding comfort in Hanna’s small smiles.

One day, after a particularly bad night where Sam’s mother had come into her room screaming at three in the morning, Sam couldn’t stop herself from voicing words that had been on her mind a lot recently.

“Why do you hang out with me?”

Hanna glanced up at Sam in confusion, pausing her game to stare at Sam, but Sam found she couldn’t meet her eyes and instead stared at her feet, feeling exhaustion settle heavily inside of her like someone had put lead in her food and now it was weighing her down.

"You’re my friend,” said Hanna as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s my job to look out for you.”

And she did look out for Sam, more and more often. Hanna couldn’t do anything to help with Sam’s home life, but she made her school days a little easier. Before, when Hanna was nothing more than a pipe dream, when Sam had no friends to call her own, school was its own special brand of hell. She couldn’t go through a day without someone slamming her into a locker or knocking the textbooks out of her hands. Some days she never got lunch; it either ended up on the floor or on her - down the front of her clothes or even on top of her head. Every single time, Sam stood and took it. She never created a fuss, never drew anymore unnecessary attention to herself than she already had by informing a teacher.

But things had changed since Hanna moved to Bishop and befriended Sam. Now no one bothered to pick on Sam on a regular basis. If they did, Hanna had several scathing words that she heaved in their direction. There was also that one time, that Sam always remembered fondly, when Hanna had kicked Billy Cooper in the shin and made him cry. He deserved it more than most and Sam remembered with less fondness how he would always taunt her after school as she waited for her bus home.

There was less taunting and shoving into lockers now, and Sam ate lunch almost every day. All thanks to Hanna.

Life was starting to look a little brighter for Sam.

Until that cold April night when Hanna walked out of the library and never came back.

*

The waiting around part is boring, but Shaw thinks _anything_ is better than the subway. It’s been three weeks since her cover was blown, but it may as well be three months. This is the first time they’ve let her out above ground and only because they are in a blind spot. Neither Samaritan or the Machine can see them. Shaw is safe for now.

It’s like she is in limbo, neither Sameen Shaw or Sameen Gray. She isn’t anyone whilst she is in hiding. Samaritan and its operatives have taken her life from her and there is nothing she can do about it.

Until tonight apparently.

Shaw can tell the others aren’t happy about her being here. Root especially and, Shaw suspects, she is only here now because of the Machine. Whatever this mission is - and Shaw is certain not even Root knows the details yet - it requires all hands on deck.

That’s fine by Shaw, it’s been a while since she was allowed to stretch her legs properly, shoot at something other than a paper target, finally kick some ass. Something thrums inside of her, almost like excitement, she thinks. It’s a startling contrast to the nervousness that is coming from Root in the passenger seat.

She is trying to hide it, doing an almost good job. Shaw doubts the others would have been able to see it, but Shaw can. It’ s in the way Root sits with her hands in her lap, chipping away absently at the black fingernail polish until there is almost none left covering her right index finger. It’s in the way she keeps asking Shaw dumb questions.

Neither of them mentions it though. Not even the anger that occasionally flashes in Root’s eyes whenever she thinks Shaw isn’t looking. But Shaw noticed it back in the subway as she was checking her gun was loaded properly and it’s been etched into her mind ever since. She wants to ask what Root is so afraid of, but doesn’t think she will like the answer when it comes out of her mouth.

So instead Shaw remains silent, watching a warehouse, its contents they have no idea of and decides to wait.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

A car pulls up ahead of them, headlights off. It’s a cloudless night and light from the full moon shines down on the front bumper.

Beside her, Root slumps down in her seat a little, as if afraid of being seen. But they are well hidden in the shadows. You’d need to be wearing night vision goggles to see them now.

“Reese,” says Shaw, “we’ve got company.”

“I saw them,” Reese replies, his voice sounding distant through Shaw’s earpiece. He’s around the back of the warehouse with Finch. To Shaw’s ears he sounds nervous. The stakes are high tonight. For all of them.

Someone steps out of the car - a figure tall and dark, but Shaw would recognise that tight blonde bunch of hair anywhere. There’s a gracefulness to the way the operative stands straight that Shaw hates and the urge to get out of the car and kill her now is almost overwhelming.

Root’s hand on her thigh stills her though, and she remembers a needle in her neck, her hand tight around Root’s throat. She had been reckless then just as she was being reckless now, by even considering getting out of the car.

“Wait,” says Root, her voice barely above a whisper, like she is afraid Samaritan can hear her.

“What are we doing here, Root?” Shaw asks. The question has been playing on her mind all evening, but she knows Root is almost as much in the dark as the rest of them. Even now, with Samaritan’s operatives here, she can tell Root still doesn’t have the full picture.

Shaw hates it. It’s like the Machine is keeping stuff from them and she has no doubt that the blonde psycho bitch who tried to kill her knows _exactly_ why she is here.

But she waits and Root’s hand still on her thigh feels almost like an anchor.

*

Years later, Sam could still remember watching Hanna leave the library. The small smile she tossed over her shoulder in Sam's direction as she clutched her books under her arm. She remembers the frown that creased her own face as Hanna got into Mr Russell's car. Sam didn't like Mr Russell and neither did Hanna; he was weird. Sometimes he followed them about the library asking them dumb questions. Sam always ignored him but Hanna would always answer politely before going back to perusing her books.

That night in April, Sam knew something was wrong. She just didn't know how wrong until days later.

Her mother was sick again so Sam missed school for three days taking care of her. When she returned, school was a sombre place. She didn't know why until she was pulled out of third period math and sent to the principal's office, thinking something was wrong with her mother and they had finally found out. Sam sat outside the principal's office, digging her nails uncomfortably into her palms, her leg shaking uncontrollably. They made her wait ten minutes before she was called in.

The principal alone Sam thought she could handle, but there was someone else there too. Deputy Landry stood solemnly just to the left of the principal's desk. Sam swallowed, finding it difficult under the scrutiny of the two adults. She wondered what her mother had done to warrant a visit from the police and it took a few moments for it to register what the deputy was saying.

They were asking about Hanna.

Afraid and feeling sick, Sam said nothing. She didn't like Principal Woods, who always asked more questions about Sam and her home life that she knew better than to answer. And talking to the police was never an option. That was something her mother ingrained in her long ago.

They both took her silence to mean that she didn't know anything, but all Sam wanted to do was scream _it was Mr Russell, he took her._

_ It was Mr Russell! _

That one thought swarmed her head for the rest of the day like a chant and she hated herself for being too afraid to say anything.

Hanna wouldn't have been afraid. Hanna wouldn't have let this happen if things had been the other way around. Hanna would have looked out for her and Sam hated herself for being so weak and unable to do the same thing.

After school, Sam headed straight for the library, half expecting Hanna to be sitting playing her computer games when she got there. The library was empty. Just Miss Barb putting some books away. She smiled sadly at Sam and Sam thought she might burst if she didn't tell someone soon. It took her an hour to find her courage and she finally cornered Miss Barb between shelves; romance on one side and American history in the other. Sam told her what she had seen the night Hanna disappeared.

_ It was Mr Russell. _

She wasn't sure what response she was expecting. Miss Barb had always been friendly and let Sam occasionally stay a bit longer after the library closed. So Sam was surprised by the almost shrieking when Miss Barb told her to watch her filthy mouth and not tell dirty lies.

Something cold and hard settle within Sam then and she ran from the library.

It was too early to go home and Sam found herself wandering the streets of Bishop, keeping her head ducked low so she wouldn't have to speak to anyone. She only stopped walking when she came to a pay phone and she stared at it, thinking about what Miss Barb had said about her lies.

_ It was Mr Russell. _

But Sam wasn't lying. She knew what she saw, could remember it clearly when she closed her eyes.

_ It was Mr Russell. _

She could remember the make of the car and its colour. When she thought about it hard enough, she could even remember the licence plate.

Bishop wasn't that big. It wouldn't be hard to track Mr Russell down from that. There might still be a chance Hanna was alive.

_ It was Mr Russell. _

Sam picked up the handset, dialling 911 with trembling fingers. Sam thought she spoke too quickly and she forced herself to slow down and take a deep breath before saying what she saw: the girl who went missing getting into a dark car that night. She reeled off the licence plate before hanging up, her hands shaking so bad it took her three attempts.

She went home after that and never stepped foot in the library again.

*

"There's something we need to retrieve," says Root, almost like she is parroting someone or _something_ else.

"What?" Shaw asks.

Root shakes her head. "I don't know yet."

Whatever it is, Samaritan is clearly interested in it. Which means it’s bad. Sending its best operative - because that blonde bitch may have tried to kill her ( _and Root,_ she thinks ruefully) she is still good at what she does, even if Shaw is reluctant to admit it - means that it must be important.

"We need to go," Root says, stepping out of the car so quickly she hasn't even finished her sentence. It takes Shaw a moment to register what has happened, but then she is hurriedly following Root, eyes scanning for any more signs of Samaritan's operatives.

She knows the Machine doesn't talk to Root as freely as it once did, so when Root starts explaining about this laptop someone in Japan developed, Shaw knows she is piecing together bits of information, cryptic and almost unreliable, that the Machine has left for her. Like a mouse following breadcrumbs to a trap.

They are still completely in the dark. The Machine can't speak to Root outright and has done so only twice, Shaw knows, since this stupid war started. That time in the hotel when Root almost got herself killed and, a few weeks ago now, when Root came to her rescue. The reason Shaw is even still breathing right now and not locked up somewhere being tortured for information on the Machine's whereabouts.

"So we're looking for a laptop," Shaw says. Now that she has some semblance of an idea of why they are here, she feels more focused. She holds her gun loosely in her hand and thinks about how long it has been since she has shot at a moving target.

Root nods and there is almost a nervous energy coming from her as she glances around. The warehouse is big. Samaritan’s operatives are inside, but not even they have eyes. Everyone is blind and, Shaw thinks, that’s the best advantage they could have.

“We should split up,” Shaw suggests.

“No,” Root says firmly. Shaw doesn’t like the fear she can detect in Root’s voice. Even in the dark, her eyes are bright and shining with worry. It makes Shaw wonder if there is another needle full of barbiturates waiting for her somewhere in the depths of Root’s coat.

They are all in danger now. It doesn’t matter that Samaritan can see Shaw now. If that blonde bitch sees any of them she is surely going to shoot first, ask questions later. Shaw has no doubt all of Samaritan’s operatives know their faces. Shaw tells this to Root and only Harold agreeing with her over their comm line seems to convince Root that splitting up is the easiest and quickest, the most _logical,_ way to proceed.

Shaw takes a left at the next junction and for a second it looks almost as if Root is just going to keep on following her. She doesn't though, quickly making a beeline in the opposite direction from Shaw and Shaw can't tell if it was because the Machine told her to move or not. But she suspects the Machine is still silent for the moment, which she supposes, can only be a good thing. Because if the Machine starts talking, then they really are in trouble.

*

The days turned into months in Bishop and yet Trent Russell continued to walk about town with a friendly smile on his face as if nothing had happened.

Soon, people started to forget about the missing girl. But not Sam.

Sam never forgot.

She always remembered and she vowed never let Trent Russell forget either.

Sometimes, even on her mother’s good days, Sam would skip school and follow Russell as he went about his everyday business, determined to catch him doing something vaguely suspicious so she could finally show the town what kind of man he was. But he was careful and Sam found nothing. Trent Russell thought he was safe, that he had gotten away with it. That no one knew.

The day Trent got married to Miss Barb, Sam knew that no one - if she had dared confide in someone else again - would ever believe her. She was just the weird kid from the edge of town with the sick mother everyone talked about behind their hands when they thought Sam wasn’t listening. Sam had been lying about her home life, about her mother and all the times she had missed school for most of her life. Everyone always saw through the lies even if they never said anything. And they never did. They felt sorry for her. That pity again that Sam hated so much.

But she had a reputation for it now. For lying. Samantha Groves, the filthy little liar. There was no one in the whole of Bishop who would believe anything she had to say about Trent Russell.

Sam could never be sure if she had told Trent what Sam saw that night, or if Miss Barb, now Mrs Russell, had kept that information to herself.

It didn’t matter anyway. No one was going to do anything about it. The more time passed, the more Sam realised that people didn’t care. They just pretended they did. Quickly, Hanna become a vaguely remembered headline, spared little thought beyond _what a_ shame _they never found that girl._

Sometimes, Sam still heard the rumours and speculation.

_ She must have ran away to escape that father of hers. _

_ No, I heard that boy Cody had something to do with it. _

But Sam knew the truth and she knew that every time Russell did something for the community “out of the goodness of his heart” that he was mocking every single one of them. Laughing at their naivety.

Trent Russell had been in charge of the fund raising that got twelve new computers installed in Sam’s school. Sam refused to use them at first, but soon the irony of using Russell’s own gift against him was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Sam liked computers. They were simple and logical and using them always came naturally to her. She preferred them to the chaos of humans and found herself spending more and more time in the computer suite. All her lunch breaks and after school until the janitor kicked her out. She would go home for a few hours, cook her mother dinner and make sure she didn’t drink herself to death or set the house on fire, before sneaking back out again.

Except it wasn’t really sneaking. When her mother asked where she was going, Sam would reply with, “I’m working on a school project,” and felt warmth blossoming inside of her when she received a small smile in return. Often, when Sam was younger, before her mother had gotten _really_ sick, she would tell Sam about her college days. Sam never knew if the stories were true or not, but she liked listening to them and picturing a younger version of her mother, thick in the thralls of academia.

Her mother always told Sam to follow her talents and Sam would always smile and say, “I’m good at taking care of you.” The sadness on her mother’s face was always hard to bear, but it had been a long time since then. Her mother had gotten too sick one too many times, leaving her with nothing but bitterness over a life left far behind. These days, when her mother started reminiscing, Sam made herself scarce before she could be blamed for everything that had gone wrong in her life.

Computers were what Sam was good at and she was determined to make herself better, to strip them inside out and find out how they worked. She never needed books or someone to teach her. She taught herself. And soon, Sam was formulating a plan that would make Trent Russell pay for what he had done.

She just had to be patient.

Transferring the money to Trent’s account had been stupidly easy. Then she just had to wait.

She wished she could have been there. Wished she could have seen the light leave Trent’s eyes as he died. Instead she had to settle for waiting for the town’s gossip mill to spread. It didn’t take long.

Sam smirked as she left school that day, the smile not leaving her face even after she got home.

The thrill of it though, the thrill of knowing she had been responsible for someone’s death, _that_ outweighed any lasting guilt that might still be lingering until that too was lost into the chaos of human interactions. 

The next day, the principal held an assembly in honour of all the contributions that Trent Russell had made to both the school and the town. Sam didn’t go. Instead, she snuck out the old fire exit, hidden down a dark corridor just past the janitor’s office. No one ever went down that way. The janitor was a sleazy, greying man, bulging in his overalls as he eyed up some of the older girls. He never bothered Sam though. Not since she had hacked her way into his bank accounts and found out he was still claiming social security for his elderly mother, who was not still alive and living with him as he claimed, but dead in the ground for the past three years.

Sam kept his secret and he let her into the school whenever she wanted to use the computers. He even gave her a key.

Outside, the sun shone merrily, heedless of the fact that Trent Russell was now dead. But Sam liked to think the sun had come out just for that. That the clouds had cleared and the sky had turned blue because Trent Russell had finally paid for what he had done.

Sam made her way across the football field, away from the main school building and any prying eyes who might be able to see her. The old equipment sheds were always good to hide behind and Sam walked towards them. She heard a commotion that would probably have sent anyone else running. But not Sam. She rounded the corner to find three boys: two she knew vaguely were members of the football team. The third she recognised, despite the blood and dirt now covering his face as he lay on the ground, cowering as two pairs of feet stomped on his side.

_ Cody. _

She would remember him forever and the way he used to follow her and Hanna to the library after school. He’d had a crush on Hanna, was obvious about it; always saving her a seat at lunch or offering to carry her books for her. Hanna had paid him barely any attention. No more than the usual friendly smile that she directed at everyone.

He had been there _that_ night, in the library. He had watched Hanna leave, just as Sam had. He must have seen Trent’s car. There was no way he couldn’t have. Not once, over the past four years, did he ever say anything. Not when the police questioned him or when the rumours never stopped. When Hanna’s father and the rest of the town came after him so bad he had to wear an eye patch for months afterwards, he still said nothing. That eye hadn’t worked properly since.

He looked at Sam with it now. Pleading her to help him. But he had never helped Hanna. He had never told the truth.

The other two boys had stopped, panting as they stared at her. If Sam had been someone else, she thought a threat or a fist would have been sent her way. But Sam’s reputation had grown. She was still a liar, yes, but she was also so much more than that. Sam could get people things. Like the answers to the tests for all the subjects you were failing. The reason these two thugs hadn’t been kicked off the football team two semesters ago.

Sam knew they would leave Cody alone if she told them to. One word from her and they would back off, never touch Cody again.

Sam looked at Cody, feeling nothing as she watched the fear in his one good eye. She could read him as if he were nothing more than information on a computer screen. The basic coding for an operating system. She knew what he was. Bad code that needed to be eradicated. They all were.

Sam turned her gaze to the boy closest to her; the taller one. The captain of the football team. A slight inclination of her head was all that was need and then she was walking away, her footsteps almost in time to the sounds of boots hitting flesh.

It wasn’t until later that Sam realised her mistake. She didn’t care about Cody, but the two jocks, if they had been caught… they wouldn’t have hesitated to shaft Sam if it dulled the flames of their own guilt. She knew she had to be more careful, stay hidden and in the shadows, allowing no one to see her true self. All they should see was Sam, the weird kid who just got weirder with age. There could be no more stealing test answers from the school computers, no more threatening low life janitors. Trent’s death had both empowered her and made her more cautious. She couldn’t let the world see who she really was. Not yet. She kept that to her computers, building up contacts and a reputation through a guise that could never be traced back to Samantha Groves.

Except, that guise… _that_ was who she was. Soon Sam became the mask that she hid behind, the persona that she projected for the world to see.

Root was who she really was. Who she was always meant to be.

*

And Root is who she still is. Even now, even after the Machine had chosen her, had made her _care_. She is still Root. She isn’t sure Sam Groves had even really existed.

She hasn’t used that name in a long time. Only Harold’s “Ms. Groves” whenever he sees her is the constant reminder of who she used to be. She wonders if it is his way of reminding her of her humanity.

But Root doesn’t need or want the reminder. Not anymore. She feels her humanity like a knife in her chest. It stings and bleeds and _hurts_ and sometimes she can’t remember how to breathe.

The Machine helps. Whispers in Root’s ear and reminds her she needs to eat and sleep and take care of herself. She is only a fragile human after all.

It’s harder these days with the Machine so quiet. Sometimes, between identities, she forgets these basic things. She’s more tired lately than she has ever been. It’s not just the exhaustion of fighting a war with an army of five (six if you count the dog). It’s _everything._

She’s tired of having to play someone else every day. Tired of her role as the perky psycho. She hasn’t felt perky in months. Every smile and innuendo, every teasing word and caress… her heart isn’t in it anymore. She’s not doing it for herself, for her own amusement anymore. This act of pretending that everything is fine… that’s all for someone else.

She doesn’t think Shaw can see it; the difference between the show and the genuine fear and worry Root is getting less and less good at hiding the longer this war goes on. It’s getting more difficult for Root to see how this is supposed to end any other way. She can’t see the Machine’s plan. She isn’t even sure there is an endgame to all of this. That’s not something she’s ever been able to get a straight answer for. The Machine’s left her alone in the dark.

Light doesn’t even shine on their current mission. She’s piecing together garbled messages that she can’t be sure even are messages. She can’t trust her own dulled senses anymore. She can’t be sure if she is just seeing things that she wants to see. If she is that desperate for contact from the Machine, that her mind is seeing things that aren’t there.

But the warehouse is where they are supposed to be tonight. The appearance of Samaritan’s operatives proved that.

It makes her nervous, how outnumbered they are. Their only advantage is that Samaritan can’t see them. But neither can the Machine. They are going in blind, unsure of what they are even looking for. A laptop maybe, but Root can’t be sure. There is a chance that she is wrong. That this is some kind of trap.

Splitting up is the most logical course of action, but the suggestion sits in Root like ice, filling her with dread. The dread has been there for weeks now. Ever since the shootout in the department store, it hasn’t left her. It solidified inside of her, clawed its way in and took hold the moment Root put a needle in Shaw’s neck.

Even with Shaw safely hidden away in the subway station, the fear was like a thick smoke, making her unable to see or breathe, choking her with the thickness of it.

And now Shaw is out, above ground where Samaritan can see her. They had used the shadow map to get here, but Root never wanted her to come at all. It is too dangerous.

But this opportunity, whatever it is that they are looking for, is too good to pass up. They’ve not had a win in so long. Those battles they _have_ won have been insignificant or too on the line between the right thing and sacrificing their moral compass to do what they need to do.

Not that Root has much of one to begin with. It’s Harold’s that is faltering and Root knows he is starting to lose faith that they will ever win this fight.

Much like her.

But Root likes to think she can hide it better.

She hides it now. Favours Shaw with a brief nod rather than the words of advice to be careful that so readily want to leave her lips. Shaw won’t listen anyway.

It’s not that she is reckless - not like that time after the shootout in the department store, when she was determined to help Reese, no matter the cost - she is focused and driven and bored of sitting around and watching the others do the dangerous work.

This _is_ dangerous though. For all of them.

She watches Shaw walk away, reminded of when Samaritan first came online, after Shaw had come to her rescue. Root fully expected to die that night. The odds hadn’t been good. Yet, Shaw came, surprising both Root and the Machine.

Parting ways hadn’t been easy for Root. She watched Shaw walk away then, much like she is watching her now and she can’t help but think of Hanna who had walked out of the library and never came back.  That event had changed Sam Groves’ life.

She hopes this won’t be the last time she sees Shaw. She’s not sure what will happen to Root if it is.

Walking blindly through the maze that is the interior of the warehouse, Root knows Reese and Harold are here somewhere to. They have back-up if they need it, if that blonde operative of Samaritan’s gets too close. She is ruthless in her goal to kill them; Root knows that all too well.

There is a gun in the waistband of Root’s pants, one in her coat pocket too, but she doesn’t feel equipped to handle whatever it is they might face tonight.

This war has been long and hard and Root can’t see the end in sight.

She moves quietly and almost jumps at the voice sounding in her ear.

_ Three hundred yards north. _

Root knows the Machine can’t see her and she wonders briefly if the sound is in her head. If it is only wishful thinking.

The instruction is repeated, an estimated chance of success along with it, dwindling down every second Root stands motionless.

“I hear you,” Root mutters. The sound of her own voice in the silent darkness is unnerving. She moves in what she hopes is north and knows the Machine will guide her if she gets lost. She must be tracking Root’s phone, monitoring everything that is going on. Root wonders if Samaritan is doing something similar. If they have no real advantage here at all.

She has barely moved three feet when gunfire breaks out somewhere behind her. It’s a distant echo, far away, but it still sounds so loud in Root’s ears.

Root hesitates; fear gripping her when she works out which direction it is coming from.

_ Keep moving _ , the Machine orders.

But Root can’t force herself to keep moving. She can hear Harold over the earpiece, sounding scared. It’s not fear for his own life. He’s safe with Reese. He’s asking about her. About _Shaw._

Samaritan can’t see them, Root keeps repeating to herself. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t reassure her. Samaritan’s operatives are ruthless, regardless of the AI talking in their ear.

The Machine once again tells her to keep moving, that she needs to reach the laptop before Samaritan’s operatives get it first.

That the Machine is talking to her now when it is so dangerous to do so, tells Root how serious this is. How important whatever is on that laptop is to their fight against Samaritan.

The gunfire only seems to get louder, more rapid.

“Root, can you reach her?” Reese asks. He’s at the other side of the warehouse. That had been Root’s stupid plan. Attack this thing from both sides. She shouldn’t have given in to the suggestion to split up. She should have stuck to Shaw like glue.

“ _Root_?” Reese says more forcefully.

“I-” Root begins and closes her eyes, listening to both the gunfire and the Machine’s instructions in her ear. The sound of gunfire is reassuring. It means Shaw is still alive. But for how much longer… Root has no idea.

They can end this war. Whatever is on that laptop, it can end this. There is no other reason why the Machine would risk everything, be so insistent.

Be so willing to sacrifice Shaw’s life.

But Root is not.

And even as the realisation enters her brain, her feet are already moving and she is pulling the gun out of her pocket, heading towards the gunfight.

Root’s not in God Mode; most of her shots go wide, but it seems to take some of the heat away from Shaw, gives her a chance to catch her breath and regroup. Root moves towards her as she ducks behind a crate for cover. Samaritan’s operatives are determined and they don’t let up. Root keeps firing blindly over the top of the crate as she kneels down next to Shaw. She’s bleeding heavily from a wound on her arm, panting from the exertion. They don’t have much time. They have to get out of there _now_.

A brief look passes between them and it’s all that is needed to get them on the same page. Shaw nods and Root climbs to her feet, firing rapidly with one hand, the other reaching for her second gun.

The cover fire allows Shaw to retreat. Root’s not far behind her.

“John,” Root says, “we’re going to need to go to plan B.”

“Copy that,” says Reese. He sounds worried, but she knows he’ll get the job done.

Root grabs Shaw’s good arm and leads her out of the warehouse. She’s conscious that they need to get out of sight, back to the subway before Samaritan spots them. Shaw’s silence is unnerving, her compliance even more so. The injury must be bad. Root just hopes not so bad that it requires proper medical attention. There’s no way they could get Shaw to a hospital or clinic without Samaritan seeing her, even with the shadow map.

The path to their car is clear. Shaw doesn’t even complain when Root guides her to the passenger seat. Not even she can drive with a bullet in her arm.

Root’s barely cleared the warehouse when there is an explosion behind them.

Plan B.

It should be enough of a distraction to keep Samaritan’s operatives off their tail and Root keeps driving, sticking to the city’s blind spots all the way to the subway.

There is no word from the Machine the entire way there.

*

“Root?”

Root flinches at the name, especially when it comes from _his_ lips.

Harold is pale, with dark bags under his eyes that betray his exhaustion. He had never been happy about their plan to break into the warehouse and he looks even more displeased now. Unable to bear it, Root turns her gaze away from him and watches across the room as Reese fixes Shaw’s arm up. It looks much worse than it actually is and Root can’t stop herself from thinking about how much more fatal it could have been - most certainly _would_ have been - if Root had followed the Machine’s instructions.

“Are you alright?” Harold asks quietly.

“I’m not the one that got shot,” Root deadpans. She’s deflecting. It doesn’t matter though. Harold can see right through it.

“The Machine,” Harold begins and Root closes her eyes, knowing what he is going to say next. “It wanted you to retrieve the laptop.”

Root swallows. The Machine has been silent ever since. She can’t know if She will ever speak again.

“Yes,” Root says shakily.

“Why didn’t you?” asks Harold. The question surprises her in its sincerity. He really doesn’t get it. But, then again, why would he? Root has followed the Machine since the first time She spoke in Root’s ear.

Harold has always been wary of his creation. Root never has. Root trusts the Machine in every way, has faith that the Machine is guiding her down a better path.

The Machine made Root a better person again. Sam Groves as she was before Hanna disappeared. Life, all life, was something the Machine valued. _All lives matter._ That is what the Machine has taught her.

But the Machine had been willing to sacrifice a life to stop Samaritan for good. And not just any life. _Shaw’s_ life.

The odds had been calculated, statistics analysed, and the Machine had concluded that Shaw’s life was worth less than all the lives Samaritan would destroy in its quest for world dominance or whatever the hell it was Samaritan was hoping to achieve.

“There’s no point in winning if there is nothing to live for,” Root says, her eyes on Shaw again. When she turns her gaze back to Harold, it’s to find him smiling at her knowingly.

Root chooses to ignore it. On anyone else, it might have been smug almost, but not on Harold.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says brightly. It makes Root wonder what _he_ lives for. What gets him out of bed in the mornings to plod along in his mundane cover life. “Does she know?” The smile slips from his face slightly as his eyes land on Shaw. “That you gave up the chance of stopping Samaritan for her?”

“No,” Root says quickly. “And she can’t ever know.”

Harold opens his mouth, perhaps to protest this, but he quickly shuts it again as Reese moves over to them.

“I need to get back to the precinct,” says Reese. “Fusco’s getting antsy about paperwork.”

“How is Ms. Shaw?”

Reese glances behind him. “She’ll live. Claiming she’s not in any pain,” he adds sceptically. “I’ll see if I can pick something up for it later.”

“Remember you are a detective now, Mr Reese,” Harold warns. Reese just nods and rolls his eyes before leaving. Root knows he will be careful, despite his flippancy. They all are now that Shaw’s cover has been blown.

Harold busies himself at his computers. He’s been spending more and more time in the subway lately. It’s detrimental to his cover, but he’s a smart guy. He’ll work that out for himself eventually.

Root leaves him to it, moving towards Shaw with amusement dancing at her lips as she watches Shaw struggle to pull a clean shirt over her head.

“Need a hand?” Root asks. She projects glee into her voice that she hopes masks the overwhelming relief that fills her.

“No,” Shaw says stubbornly and hisses in pain upon her second attempt.

“You’re going to burst Reese’s carefully crafted stitches,” Root says.

Shaw snorts at that, glancing at the shirt in her hands. She sighs before handing it over to Root.

The smile widens on Root’s face, and she deliberately brushes their fingers together as she takes the shirt. Shaw just scowls, but Root thinks it’s more to do with the pain she is trying not to show than Root pushing too far.

Root successfully gets the shirt over Shaw’s head, with only some degree of difficulty. She watches as Shaw attempts to straighten it with her good arm, but even that she has problems with. Root does it for her, finds she doesn’t mind the glare she receives in return and lets her hands linger on Shaw’s waist. The smile slips from Root’s face when she feels Shaw solid and warm beneath her fingertips. But she can’t stop the image of Shaw lying dead, cold and unmoving, from filling her head.

She realises she doesn’t care all that much about the lives that might be lost because they didn’t stop Samaritan tonight. She tries to tell herself there is no way of knowing the Machine’s plan would even have worked, but the thought just leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

“What about the laptop?” Shaw asks.

Root swallows, letting Shaw go and taking a step back. Shaw frowns at her, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t think there was a laptop.”

“You think it was a trap?” Shaw asks. Root moves to tinker with the medical supplies still sitting out from when Reese fixed Shaw up. She shrugs, not daring to look at Shaw.

“Probably,” she says, the lie nipping at her as it leaves her mouth.

“Root,” says Shaw firmly, grabbing Root’s elbow to turn her around.

Root sighs and averts her eyes. She’s never been very good at lying to Shaw. She can divert and mask, but outright lying? That’s never been easy with Shaw.

“I had a friend once,” says Root, looking past Shaw’s shoulder at the empty subway station. She wonders where Harold has gone. If he has left to seek the thing he cares about most. The one thing worth living for. “She… went away.”

“She died,” Shaw says bluntly.

“Yeah,” Root says quickly. “For the longest time I always hoped…” That Hanna would walk back into the library, grinning because it was all a silly mistake. A joke. But as the days wore on, it became clear that her hope was foolish and childish.

It was time for Sam to grow up and grow up she had.

“I’m not your friend,” Shaw says. “I’m not dead.”

“No,” Root agrees, but she almost was. So many close calls lately. Root can’t bear to think about it.

“You’re right,” Shaw eventually says. Root looks at her in surprise. “Probably was a trap.”

“Shaw…” Root starts, but isn’t sure what she can say. Shaw knows the choice Root made, but the betrayal and anger that Root expects isn’t there.

“Next time,” Shaw says, glancing down at where her hand is still holding onto Root’s elbow, “can we verify our information first? Missions can’t be executed effectively if we only have half the facts.”

In other words, get the Machine talking. Find out the full plan. Root thinks that is easier said than done these days. Even before, the Machine had never given Root the full picture.

She recalls what Harold said to her in the hotel room a few months ago, about the Machine only seeing them as numbers, that She would kill them if it suited Her own purpose. Root swallows, the words ringing more true now than they had then. Samaritan is a threat to the Machine. That laptop and whatever it contained, somehow that could have stopped it. The Machine was willing to sacrifice Shaw for Her own survival. Root can’t articulate how she feels about that. All she knows is if a similar circumstance happened again… she would do the exact same thing.

“Okay,” Root says, eyes locking with Shaw’s. Surprise shines in Shaw’s eyes for a moment before they return to their usual stoic indifference.

Root always obeys the Machine, never questions or defies her… until now. She wonders if Shaw has worked that out and what she thinks of it if she has.

“Okay,” Shaw says, taking a step back and letting out a heavy breath. “I need a drink,” she mutters as she moves away towards the section of the subway station that is now her home. Each step is slow and measured. She’s in more pain than she will ever admit and if Root wasn’t so relieved at seeing her so defiant, she might have insisted more that she get some rest. Instead, she follows Shaw hesitantly and watches as she sits on the cot, leaning over, her good arm searching for something underneath.

Root raises her eyebrow at the bottle of tequila and wonders if Reese was the one sneaking her in booze amongst the food packages.

“Wanna join me?” Shaw asks.

Root’s surprised at the invitation and is fairly sure it doesn’t extend to sharing the cot, but Root sits beside her anyway. Their knees bump together and Root keeps hers firm against Shaw’s, smiles when Shaw doesn’t move away.

Shaw takes a deep drink before passing the bottle to Root. She takes a sip, choking as it burns down her throat and scowls at the eye roll Shaw gives her.

It’s a nice, companionable silence that follows and it reminds Root of those times in the library, quietly reading with Hanna sitting beside her. It’s not until now that Root realises how much she has missed that. So many years had been spent on her own as she searched for something so much bigger than herself. Then she found the Machine and although she was no longer alone, although she had a purpose, it wasn’t the same.

Shaw’s body, warm and solid beside her, is more comforting that the Machine had ever been.

Root takes another drink and the second mouthful goes down more smoothly. She brings the bottle to her lips again, but Shaw snatches the bottle from her before she can drink an ymore.

“You aren’t mad?” Root asks and thinks the alcohol has made her bolder.

Shaw pauses, the bottle halfway to her mouth as she side-eyes Root and Root can tell that she is not exactly thrilled by the question, that she would prefer to leave it alone and never speak of this again.

“I’m not exactly thrilled to still be stuck down here,” she says after a few moments, swallowing down another mouthful of tequila. “But I guess it beats being stuck in the ground.”

“Yeah,” Root agrees and can tell that the conversation is over. If she pushes any further then Shaw _will_ get mad. Because they don’t talk about what this is. They never have and Root is content if they never do. “I’ll just have to think of new ways to keep you entertained.” Root fills her voice with innuendo and smirks when Shaw almost chokes on her drink.

“Don’t you have a new identity to get to?” Shaw asks, scowl on her face.

“Not tonight,” Root says quietly, saddened by the silence from the Machine. She wonders how long it will last. If the Machine will ever forgive her. She wonders if she will be the one the Machine tries to sacrifice next and if Shaw will come to her rescue if She does. “Tonight I’m all yours,” Root adds, smirking widely.

Shaw stares at her stoically for a moment before a smirk quirks at her own lips. “Well you can start by getting me steak, Miss Multiple Identities.”

Root raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I can, can I?”

“Yeah,” says Shaw and nudges Root with her knee. “I’m hungry and it’s not like you’re about to let me above ground.”

“Since when do you listen to me anyway?” Root asks, enjoying this playful side of Shaw. It’s rare and she wonders if it is the tequila’s influence. Or maybe it is the near death experience, so soon after the last one.

“Sometimes I listen to you,” Shaw says sullenly. “Are you getting me my food or not?”

A light chuckle escapes Root’s mouth before she can stop it and when she isn’t met with a glare she dares to lean in closer and press her lips against Shaw’s. Shaw moves to deepen the kiss, but Root is already pulling away.

“One steak coming right up,” she says, climbing to her feet and grinning at the slightly dazed look that has appeared on Shaw’s face. It’s gone in a flash as she takes another drink and Root pry’s the bottle from her grip before she can take anymore. “Maybe you should stick to water for the rest of the night.”

Shaw frowns. “Who's the doctor here?”

“Who almost died here?” Root counters, satisfied when Shaw doesn’t protest any further. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere,” she calls over her shoulder as she climbs up the stairs. She hears Shaw grumble, “where the hell am I supposed to go?” and smirks to herself.

Outside it is cold and dark, but the street lamps shine down, providing Root with a path and letting her see where she needs to go. She doesn’t have to look up to know that a security camera is watching her. Samaritan cataloguing her current identity and classifying her as insignificant. She wonders if the Machine is watching her too.

When she had first heard about the Machine, started searching for it, she had been heedless of who got in her way. She had killed her way to the Machine. She was ruthless. She was Root.

She is still Root now, just as she is still Sam Groves. She realises that the girl she once was never really left her. She was always Sam and she was always Root. But, as the Machine who changed her and made her into who she is now, Root has evolved.

Perhaps they evolved together.

And perhaps they will evolve together once again.


End file.
